‘What do you mean?’
‘Because I’d like to take you out to dinner. Dublin boasts some excellent restaurants. Unfortunately . . .’
‘We daren’t show our faces.’
‘No. I fear it’ll have to be sandwiches and coffee here in the room. What would you like?’
‘Could we have a bottle of wine instead of coffee?’
‘Whatever you say.’
He called room service and discovered they had smoked salmon sandwiches, which he ordered with the best bottle of Chablis on the list. He also retrieved the baton and his gun from the getaway case. He didn’t intend being caught by the oldest trick in the book, a substitute for the waiter bringing their order – one of the few details they got right in bad movies. Before the waiter arrived, he picked up the telephone again and dialled Inspector Murray as he had promised. The call was short. He knew exactly how long it would take Murray to get a trace on his number and so pinpoint him at the International Airport Hotel. In the field you never trust anybody.
‘Norman? Jacko. You have anything?’
‘It’ll be in the morning papers, Jacko. But there’s something else I want to talk to you about.’
‘Just give me what’s going in the papers.’
‘Local girl, Jacko. No form. Part-time chambermaid, name of Betty-Anne Mulligan.’
‘Ah. They got any ideas down there?’
‘None at all. Good girl. Twenty-two years. No current boyfriends. Family’s cut up no end.’
‘And the mutilation?’
‘I think you know, Jacko. You’ve had a couple on your side of the water. Betty-Anne Mulligan’s head was bashed in and she had not a tongue in her mouth. Removed after death. It was very professional they tell me.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Only the clothes she was wearing. The raincoat and headscarf.’
‘Well?’
‘Not hers, Jacko me boy, not hers. They belonged to a guest at the hotel. It was a lovely bright day when Betty-Anne went in to work. The rains came mid-afternoon and she had a long walk home. Two miles and no coat or covering for her head. A guest took pity on her . . .’
‘What name?’
‘Miss Elizabeth Larke – with an e, Jacko. Would you be knowing anything about that?’
‘No,’ Bond answered honestly, ‘but I might by tomorrow. If I do I’ll give you a call.’
‘Good man, now . . .’
Bond had been looking constantly at his watch. He had about thirty seconds before he might be traced.
‘No, Norman. There’s no time. Your questions will have to wait. Will the guest’s name be in the papers?’
‘It will not. Neither will the news about the tongue.’
‘Good. Oh, and Norman, this is completely unofficial. I’ll be in touch.’
He heard Murray exclaim, ‘Jacko . . .’ as he rang off. For a full minute he sat looking at the telephone, then the waiter knocked at the door, interrupting his thoughts.
‘Heather, did you often have meetings with Ebbie? I think I asked you before, but I need more details.’
They ate the sandwiches, and drank a ’78 Chablis. It was a good year but vastly overpriced. Heather held out her glass for more.
‘We met two or three times a year.’
‘And observed the field rules?’
‘Yes. We were very careful. We booked hotels under names we concocted . . .’
‘Such as?’
‘She was always Elizabeth. I was Hetty. Our surnames were birds and fish. She was a bird, I was a fish.’
‘Ah. Did you keep a list?’
‘No. Each time we met we arranged the name for the next meeting.’ She laughed, a jolly, almost schoolgirl laugh. ‘Ebbie and I were very close. She was the best friend I ever had. In my time I’ve been Miss Sole, Miss Salmon, Miss Crabbe. We changed the spelling slightly, as in Miss Pyke, spelled with a y.’
‘And what are you this time?’
‘You’ve made me Miss Arlington, but I would have gone as Hetty Sharke, with an e.’
‘What about the bird?’
Her eyes brimmed, and he thought she was about to break down again so he told her gently to take her time. She nodded, gulped and tried to talk. Then she had another go and managed to speak in a small voice.
‘Oh, we laughed a lot. She’s been Elizabeth Sparrow, Wren, Jay, Hawke, with an e.’
‘And this time?’
‘Larke.’
‘With an e, naturally.’
‘Yes.’ So Miss Larke, safely staying at the Ashford Castle Hotel, was Ebbie Heritage. Had she just been kind, lending the poor little chambermaid her raincoat and scarf, or had she spotted someone, and if so would she now get out fast?
‘Did you have a fallback if anything went wrong?’
Heather nodded. ‘Every time. But this was an emergency. We made plans for something like this the first time we met after our rehabilitation. If anything went wrong, or I didn’t show, she was to have gone to Rosslare, to the big hotel that looks over the harbour, the Great Southern. That was in case we had to make a dash for it on the ferry. But, now . . .’ She trailed off, the tears close again.
Bond looked at his watch. It was gone eleven. For a second he wanted to put Heather out of her misery, to tell her that Ebbie was alive and well. But experience told him to keep the information very close to his chest.
‘Look, Heather, tomorrow’s going to be a tough day. I’m going downstairs for a few minutes. You are not to open the door to anyone except me. I’ll give you a Morse V knock – tap-tap-tap-bang – twice. If anyone else comes, keep silent. And don’t answer the telephone. Get yourself ready for bed. I’ll avert my eyes when you open up . . .’
‘Oh, Lord, James, I’m a big girl. I’ve been in the field, remember.’
She giggled, which signalled a tiny doubt in Bond’s mind. Here was a trained field agent, who had been entrusted with possibly the most important target in the Cream Cake operation, yet she appeared to be slightly drunk on less than half a bottle of Chablis. That just didn’t ring true. She seemed to be an enthusiastic amateur trying hard for professional recognition. He slipped into his jacket.
‘Right, Miss Heather Dare. No door opening, except at my knock; and no answering of the telephone. I won’t be long.’
Downstairs, Bond went into the bar and bought a vodka and tonic, offering an English ten pound note. The change came entirely in Irish money, as though there were no difference in the rate of exchange, so he persuaded the barman to give him three pounds’ worth of ten pence pieces to feed one of the telephone boxes in the foyer.
He took his time checking the bar, coffee shop and foyer, even walking into that odd well, furnished with black imitation leather seats, that occupied most of the foyer like some kind of bunker. There was nobody there who raised his suspicions. Not a smell, nothing untoward, as his old friend Inspector Murray would have said. When he was absolutely certain, he went over to the telephones near the door, looked up the Ashford Castle Hotel in the directory and dialled the number.
‘I’d like to speak to one of your guests, Miss Larke,’ he told the distant switchboard operator. ‘Miss Elizabeth Larke.’
‘Just one moment.’ There was a click on the line, then she said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, Miss Larke checked out.’
‘When? I’m really calling for a friend who was to meet her at your hotel, a Miss Sharke, S-h-a-r-k-e. There wouldn’t be a message left for her?’
‘I’ll have to put you through to Reception.’
There was a short pause then another voice announced, ‘Reception.’
Bond repeated his question. Yes, Miss Larke had left a message to say she had gone on ahead.
‘You don’t know where?’ Bond asked.
‘It’s a Dublin address.’ The girl paused as though uncertain whether she should give it. She relented and
